


broken azurite dreams

by mariokartprince (technicalViolist)



Series: the in between [1]
Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures
Genre: Apocalypse, F/M, Not Shippy, Sadstuck, got some musical accompaniment, poetic prose, told slightly out of order
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-10
Updated: 2016-05-10
Packaged: 2018-06-07 13:29:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6806821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/technicalViolist/pseuds/mariokartprince
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>the stage is set. actors (pawns?) in place.</em><br/><em>setting: a world drowned in tears and hazy crystalline misery.</em><br/><em>soundtrack: choked silence.</em><br/> </p><p>there is nothing to do now but go through the motions and pretend there is still life in your eyes.</p><p>she sighs, and mixes another drink.</p><p>you begin a very convincing mime of a man decomposing in slow motion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	broken azurite dreams

**Author's Note:**

> welcome to the first fanfic i've published since 2012  
> your reading experience will be greatly enhanced if you throw the song _The Dead Flag Blues_ by _Godspeed You! Black Emperor_ on loop! find that shit here: <http://www.infinitelooper.com/?v=XVekJTmtwqM>

_indigo dreams and memories half unseen_  
_a fleeting glimpse of that unkind in between_  
_it rings frozen in your bones._  
_it whispers a paralyzing unknown._  
_a transient, cerulean tranquil is lost silently, never seen._

 

_setting: a world drowned in tears and hazy crystalline misery._

_soundtrack: choked silence._

_the stage is set. actors (pawns?), in place. lights, camera, action! opening scene: the end of the world._

 

you’d love to just burn it all right now, but arson’s not really your gig.

everything would go up in an icy conflagration of melancholy relief from the burden of trudging on forward in this new, strange world where knowledge of the inconsequentiality of your own life in comparison to )(er’s is commonplace. or would it just melt?

you don’t really know.

does the past have any value? is it still worth bearing any thought upon at all?

you don’t really know.

was any of it real?

you don’t really know.

they’re coming for you, someday.

 

mission time: 5 years.

serpentine shadows wind in ringlets from your mouth and you _know_ she told you the habit would kill you but, somehow, in all of your midnight musings, you never imagined it would feel quite like _this._

there is a hole where your heart _(disambiguation: hope, happiness)_ used to be.

they are still coming for you, so,

you shoot the shit and shoot some shit and get shot at (shit) but it still feels hazy and indistinct and a bit too close to that unkind unreality for your liking but what the fuck can you do?

 

you reminisce.

 

mission time: zero hour. showtime, folks. the flashes blind you every time. you'd think the paparazzi would learn to chill someday, but they never do. they never get the chance.

mission time: 3 hours.

the sky is yellow and teems with tension. you don’t think anyone has noticed your decoded little rebellion yet, but they are still coming for you, and the babbling hobo that no one listens to on the corner of 5th and James Avenue is the only other one in this goddamn town that's not blind to the harsh truth of the matter, so you listen.

you do not like what you hear.

you listen anyway, and ignore the flashes. it’s all just light and noise anyhow.

they’re still coming, you think.

 

_and then -_

mission time: 2 years, 4 months, 15 days.

the sky is an ugly shade of cold, forgotten milk left alone to muse on its failures in a dark cupboard and -

you feel like ice.

white hot shock froze your blood burning two days ago and (because of the nightmares) you kind of expected meteors but ha! look at that, you get to say you called it anyway. warned you man! told you dog!

there is nothing to do now but go through the motions and listen to dance apocalyptic on repeat for the tenth loop in a row and pretend there is still life in your eyes and

pretend.

she sighs, and mixes another drink.

you begin a very convincing mime of a man decomposing in slow motion.

the sky is deep navy and drips sorrow (plink...plink...plink...) onto the frigid steel floor.

you’re running out of cigarettes.

 

_it changed._

mission time: 2 years, 4 months, 13 days. (6 hours, 12 minutes, 11 seconds. 12 seconds. 13-)

and on one crisp, clear morning, October 25th, a Wednesday, a seagull screeches overhead and you are forcibly reminded why you keep an old katana locked under the left side of your shitty twin bed in your shittier apartment.

breathing feels like ice water in the lungs.

the clouds are crystal sharp and cruel, mocking.

you were right about )(er.

you were right about _everything._

 

~

 

mission time: 8 years,

and your mouth is a flat iron bar.

humor withered into bitter, caustic sarcasm three years back because _what is the point_ when the entire world is just so much sand in the hourglass, tick tocking down to a meaningless, inevitable end?

you

are silently becoming undone.

there is a quiet unrelenting certainty that you refuse to acknowledge that pains you worse than the week old bullet wound in your right chest. sometimes you wonder how she stays sane.

she tells you she doesn’t.

you are not even fazed.

a thousand cold pinpricks stare lifelessly down from the heavens and, not for the first time, you feel the crushing weight of your own cosmic insignificance. a forlorn, forgotten strand of cerulean despair winds up to you from the lungs of a million doomed souls like a hopeless plea for help and - it pains you. you crush your last cigarette out with a heel,

turn,

and begin the two-and-one-third minute walk back to the dingy collection of walled in spaces you call an apartment. you take a deep breath and -

it’s so cold.

it is _so_ cold.

 

mission time: 10 years.

the concrete cliff digs into your thigh and you stare down into the limitless power of the Pacific Ocean from a dilapidated storefront in Memphis. the sun is blinding and unforgiving. a harsh, sweltering wind knifes through your paper thin jacket like a broken promise and you squint. you are grateful for the shades.

a crow shrieks overhead, out of tune, off-key.

plastic lenses only do so much to hide the naked, terrified desperation in your carnelian eyes but, as far as you know, Rose is the only one who could see.

twin flame; soulmate.

these days, the two of you orbit each other like dying stars. neither of you have ever felt so alone in your lives.

years ago, fragile, hopeful butterflies solidified into the iron-clad bond of those who have been through hell and broke in identical ways; mirror images of each other, metaphorically conjoined twins. you would die without each other, so you will die with each other instead.

this is a fact;

you do not need to speak it.

her lips are blacker than the infinite void she commands and she oft smells of Merlot nowadays, but you don’t blame her. you're beyond that point yourself.

her skin is cold like the snow that has not fallen in 5 years.

you wait.

 

mission time: 11 years.

[your informant supply shrivels up until it dies a timid death](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9380657/chapters/21236486), but that is alright because she sharpened her needles into weapons of mass misery years ago and you are prepared. you have no choice but to be. you feel the feebly persistent faith of ten dozen lost souls begging you, urging you. the decision is made instantaneously - hardly any effort on your part. you ask if she'll come with you. she says until the end.

you think of jade, and something in your chest tightens.

your whetstone gets the most use at night - dark, shadowy things chase the torn edges of your vision and you unfocus, letting the _shnk_ of your katana’s edge lull you into a cautious, weary half-dream state.

[in your nightmares,](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9380657/chapters/22744529) she always dies last.

 

when the nightmare comes true, you are bizarrely relieved. your blood spills crimson on asphalt, a dissonant duet of your favorite colors, and as you leak life you are abruptly thrown back to a hazy, dusty morning in May ten years ago; you and she would still dance around each other like witty star-crossed lovers with all the time in the world and nothing to do but mess with the press. [the skies were warm with the orange tint of nostalgia. life was good.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7274146/chapters/16517440)

[she was smiling, then.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7274146/chapters/16517440)

you are smiling, now, and your life fades to black on an unmarked road in the middle of a Kansas winter.

the curtains close as furious flashes of purple and void dance over your cooling body and her nigh inhuman screams of rage fill the night.

she will join you soon.

freedom tastes bittersweet.


End file.
